


Falling Angels

by pinstripedJackalope



Series: TSC Oneshots [4]
Category: The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Introspection, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Not Canon Compliant, Runes, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23088835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope
Summary: Just a little oneshot about Alec Lightwood.
Relationships: Alec Lightwood & himself, Clary Fray & Alec Lightwood
Series: TSC Oneshots [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659478
Comments: 5
Kudos: 37





	Falling Angels

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags.
> 
> This is set just after the fiasco at the Hotel Dumort in City of Bones.

Alexander Gideon Lightwood is most easily defined by what he isn’t. According to him, at least. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s not quick and charming and deadly like Jace. He’s not fun and boisterous and outgoing like Izzy. He’s not humorous, not bookish, not bright, not beautiful. He’s not the one people come looking for when things go wrong or they want a fun night or they need someone to talk to. 

It’s not a good feeling. It’s exhausting, to not be all these things. Some days he wonders what that leaves. What is he, if these are all the things he’s not? Some days… some days it feels like he’s not anything, like he’s insubstantial. Like people skip over him when they look around a room. He’s never the most interesting person there, never the most intelligent, never the bravest or the tallest or anything else, really. Sometimes he’s the meanest, the one who says what he’s thinking even though it’s rude. That’s it—that’s his claim to fame. The fact that sometimes he’s a dick.

He doesn’t like it when that happens. He tries to keep things inside but sometimes they just come out and then he’s fighting with someone and they’re picking apart all his insecurities and—ugh. See, this? This is exactly why he didn’t want Clary in the institute.

Alec storms down the hallway, thankful that Clary has left but still feeling the prick of the words she’d slung at him. ' _If you were honest, you_ _’d admit this tantrum is just because you’re in love with him,'_ he mimics in his head, instantly hating himself more for doing it but unable to stop. Stupid Clary. Stupid girls. Stupid, _stupid_ Alec.

He reaches the infirmary a moment later, goes to open the door, and finds that he can’t make himself do it. He wants so badly to be there for Jace but his hands are shaking. He lost control. He pushed Clary. He _lost control_. And no matter how hard he tries, he can’t for the life of him get that control back.

He turns, pivoting on one heel, and heads back down the hallway.

He gets to his room a few minutes later, slamming into the door and then slamming it again behind him. He tries to take a deep breath, to control his emotions, and then realizes that no one cares. No one is going to show up to placate him if he actually does have a tantrum, not Izzy or Jace or Hodge… not even his mom. That, more than anything, takes the fight out of him.

He sighs. Then, slowly and carefully, he peels off his shoes and slips into bed, curling up on his side with his back to the door. 

It’s then, and only then, that he allows himself to feel the pain emanating from his left wrist. He can feel Jace’s pain, too, in a distant sort of way—the dislocated shoulder throbs unpleasantly. In… and out… Alec breathes along with it, letting his eyes slip closed for a moment before he opens them again to examine his wrist. 

The brace on it is the same as it ever is. Dark against his light skin, inconspicuous. This is because it hides one of his deepest secrets. He bites his lip, peeling off the brace and exposing his wrist, and the mark on it, to the cool air.

It was, once upon a time, an actual injury. When he was thirteen, a shax demon broke his wrist—near shattered it, in fact. It took some runes from the silent brothers to fix it, but before they could come he was in an incredible amount of pain. It was… how does he put this without sounding nuts? It was like… like he was finally present in the moment. He wasn’t overthinking about things from the past, nor was he overthinking about things in the future, he was just… there. In the now. Centered in a way that he never is. It was almost like he was calm for the first time ever.

Afterward, when he was all alone again and his thoughts had started to spiral like they always did… he had this _idea_. Bring the pain back… and he’d bring the calm, too. It wasn’t really logical, but it was the only thing he could think. Hurt=comfort. Pain=calm. So in the middle of the night, by the light of his witchlight stone, he pulled out his stele and began drawing lines on his skin.

He’d learned the rune while reading a history book, of all things. Back when downworlder spoils were common, it was a lot more ‘controversial’ to stand up for downworlders, especially those who had broken the law, even minutely. A shadowhunter who stood up for a downworlder was subject to not only ridicule but also so-called ‘tests’ of their allegiance. One of the tests was a test of pain, and in the illustration in the history book was a rune, the rune that Alec had then marked himself with.

The pain came as soon as he finished the last loop. It wasn’t sharp, not like the pain of the broken wrist—it was slow and dull, an ebbing ache. But still, Alec imagined that he felt calmer, his thoughts slower. He imagined that he was more in control, that the rune gave him the power to handle his emotions better. He imagined that he was a better person because of the pain.

And that… that was that.

With a low sigh, Alec examines the inside of his wrist. The mark is fading—he knew it was, that was part of the reason he was so angry in the hall with Clary. Sure, a lot of it was Clary and her goddamn need to drag Jace into trouble that he doesn’t need, but that didn’t account for the force of his anger. He should have redone the rune before the party. Should have held himself back better. Should have kept his mouth shut.

Regret has such a bitter taste. 

He bites his lip. Then he sighs again and reaches for his stele. He focuses wholly on the burning feeling as he draws the tip across his skin, retracing the rune one stroke at a time until it’s complete. He relaxes as the familiar pain courses through him.

He’s not charming. He’s not beautiful. He’s not Jace. But at least… at least he has this.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Guardian Angels](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23267287) by [pinstripedJackalope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope)




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